


it feels like going home

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (sort of), 5+1 Things, Background Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforv, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Found Family, Gen, Growing Up, Minor Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Profanity, Relationship Advice, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, Supportive Victor Nikiforov, animal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 13:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18624469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: Yuri mopes at a wedding, worries about his cat, cooks for his grandpa, helps Viktor and Yuuri move house, gets in a fight with Otabek, and helps assemble some baby furniture.Somewhere along the way, he grows up.





	it feels like going home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SoVeryAverageMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoVeryAverageMe/gifts).



> This was written for Zoe as part of the 2019 Fandom Trumps Hate charity auction! Thank you so much for donating!
> 
> The prompt was for Yuri, Yuuri, and Viktor and found families, which I hope I've managed to capture. Originally this was supposed to be a 5+1 style fic, with five times Yuuri and Viktor helped Yuri and one time he helped them. While I still think you can see the bones of the original, it got away from me somewhat and turned into more of an exploration of Yuri growing up from the teenager we see in the show to a young adult, through his relationships with Yuuri and Viktor.
> 
> The title and the epigraph are from the poem 'Going Home: New Orleans' by Sheryl St. Germain

_Some slow evenings when the light hangs late and stubborn in the sky,_  
_gives itself up to darkness slowly and deliberately, slow cloud after slow cloud,_  
_slowness enters me like something familiar,_  
_and it feels like going home._

* * *

Yuri did not want to go to JJ’s wedding. He’d said so from the minute the invitations arrived. He had no intention of ever voluntarily spending any of his time in the company of that pompous asshole, and certainly not at an event designed to make the man the center of attention by its very nature. Which is why it is so incredibly annoying to find himself sitting at the reception, surrounded by the combined extended Leroy and Yang families, the entirety of Canada’s cultural and sporting elite, and every figure skater in the world. 

Admittedly, the reception itself isn’t that bad, especially after the droning hour of the actual ceremony. The food is actually really good, even if Yuri can’t identify any of it other than the poutine since JJ apparently decided to lean into the Canadian stereotypes even more than usual and serve only dishes emblematic of his country. There’s a lot of maple flavored stuff. Yuri thinks it’s pretty stupid, but at least it tastes good.

And, fortunately, JJ was smart enough to ask Otabek to DJ so the music is also decent, and Yuri has only had to hear The Theme of King JJ twice the entire evening. Unfortunately, this means that the one selling point of this entire stupid trip—that he would get to spend time with Otabek—has been a bit of a wash.

With Otabek in the wedding party (and Yuri had never questioned Otabek’s taste in friends more than he did when he found out that Otabek had been asked to be one of JJ’s groomsmen, except possibly five seconds later when he found out that Otabek had agreed) and pulling double duty at the reception (even if it is for the good of everyone’s ears) they haven’t had more than five minutes to hang out. Which sucks. And it isn’t like there is anyone else Yuri wants to spend time with at this stupid wedding. 

“Yurio! So, this is where you’re hiding. Are you enjoying the party?”

Speaking of people Yuri doesn’t want to see. “I’m fine, go away old man. Go bother your husband or something.”

“But Yurio,” Viktor whines as he drops unceremoniously into an unoccupied seat next to Yuri, glass of champagne held lazily in his hand, “I wanted to talk to you. Besides,” he adds, shrugging his shoulders with a lopsided smile that tells Yuri that he’s more than a little drunk, “Yuuri got caught up talking to one of Isabella’s fashion photographer friends. He’ll be around when he’s done networking.”

Yuri rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his own glass of non-alcoholic fruit punch (“we were sure to have a variety of options,” JJ had said with a smirk, “it wouldn’t be fair to leave people out just because they can’t drink yet.” Yuri had managed to restrain himself from punching him, but only because it was the day before the wedding and it was probably bad luck or something to make a groom get married with a broken nose.) 

“Of course that’s what he’s doing. Networking, instead of the normal wedding guest things.”

“What, like sitting sullenly in the corner eating a third plate of poutine?”

Yuri threw down the French fry he’d been picking at. “Screw you, old man.”

“Come on, Yurio, you’re sulking. It’s a party! Have some fun.”

“Doing what?” Yuri sighs, exasperated. “Other than Otabek, who’s working, and Katsudon, who’s busy, everyone here is either a stranger or someone I don’t like. I don’t exactly have an extensive friend group. Or a winning personality.” It isn’t self-deprecating when he says it, at least he likes to think so. He just isn’t a people person. This is a well-established fact.

“I don’t know, go dance. Bug Otabek by the DJ booth. Go talk to Minami, he’s around here somewhere. I know you can’t hate him as much as you claim you do. Or there’s a whole swarm of Leroy cousins about your age, they seem pleasant enough. And extroverted, so you don’t have to worry about carrying the conversation. Just do something other than sit in the corner, please? It’s sad.”

“Okay, not by myself that would be stupid, no, that would be rude, yes, I do actually hate him, and seriously, no, anyone related to that guy is guaranteed to be a secret narcissistic jackass, even if they seem nice.” Yuri ticks off the counterarguments on his fingers. “I’m perfectly fine staying right here, by myself.” The latter emphasis is paired with a pointed glare in Viktor’s direction. 

Viktor sighs. “But this is supposed to be a party. You should be having fun. And you’re just sitting here being miserable. It makes me worry. It makes Yuuri worry.”  
Yuri scowls as Viktor pulls out the big guns, and it isn’t the puppy dog eyes currently being leveled in his direction and they both know it. Invoking Yuuri is really the ultimate trump card. 

“Ugh, fine,” he says, shoving back his chair and swiping his glass of depressingly non-alcoholic fruit punch as he stands up, “I’ll go do something. Not go talk to annoying people, but something.” 

Viktor’s voice, light with laughter, floats after him as he walks away. “Thank you, Yura! Good luck!”

Yuri sighs as he swings by the drinks table. Otabek could probably use a drink. And that would be a good excuse for him to hide out by the DJ booth. Even if Otabek couldn’t talk, it would get Viktor off his back. And it would probably be better than sitting by himself, anyway.

* * *

The names blur as he scrolls through his contacts, and it’s only then that Yuri realizes that he’s crying. He takes a moment, looks up and out at the city lights passing by in the dark outside the cab, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. The smell of the driver’s stale cigarette smoke tickles the back of his nose.

He notices his hands are trembling faintly as he wraps his free arm tighter around the carrier in his lap and he balls the hand not clutching his phone into a fist, the jagged edges of his nails cutting crescents into his palms. The cab slows at a stoplight and Yuri fights the impulse to jog his knee with impatience. He doesn’t want to disturb the carrier. Instead, he refocuses on his phone. 

There is absolutely no one in the world he wants to talk to right now, but since he’s supposed to be taking more responsibility for his actions (Yakov’s words for not disappearing and doing shit without telling people) he pulls up the least unpalatable contact and types out a quick message.

**Me (23:37): I’m probably going to be late for practice tomorrow, could you let Yakov know I’m not dead when he freaks out about it**

It doesn’t take long for a reply to come through, which Yuri kind of hates since he was hoping he wouldn’t have to talk about it, and also because it makes him wonder what the old geezers are doing up so late on a weeknight.

_The Katsudon (23:38): Of course, Yura. Is everything alright?_

Yuri realizes he’s gripping his phone tightly enough that the whiskers of the novelty cat case Viktor got him for his birthday are bending as he jams them into his palm. He has also been pressing the ‘f’ key so the string of letters is now three lines long, the clicking sound a rapid staccato in the quiet of the back seat. It’s an accurate transcription of Yuri’s internal monologue for the last half hour, but it’s not a particularly helpful answer. He backspaces, tries to remember to breathe, and types out the sparse details.

**Me (23:41): Potya’s sick. Taking her to the vet.**

Again, the reply is immediate.

_The Katsudon (23:41): Oh no! What’s wrong?_

_The Katsudon (23:41): What vet clinic are you going to? Do you want us to come?_

It kind of makes Yuri want to hit something because he doesn’t want to talk about it and he doesn’t want to have to deal with anyone right now. But he also wishes that this entire thing wasn’t happening at all, and he does not want to be alone at the vet’s office waiting for his sick cat all night. While he’s staring at Yuuri’s offer and agonizing over the situation, another message comes through.

_The Katsudon (23:43): I can come by myself, too, if you’d prefer_

Yuri swallows around the lump in his throat. He’s supposed to be an adult; he’s supposed to be able to deal with these things in an emotionally mature way. And he’s been getting better, he knows he has. Slowly, he types out a reply.

**Me (23:44): Idk what’s wrong. I think she ate something. You can come if you want.**

He copies the address of the emergency vet clinic and sends that too. The cab driver has obeyed every single traffic law for the entire trip and Yuri wants to scream at him. How is it, the one time it is truly urgent, he manages to find the one driver in all of Russia who actually obeys the speed limit?

His phone buzzes with a reply from Yuuri.

_The Katsudon (23:45): I’m on my way_

Yuri barks out a laugh that sounds like it’s been ripped from his throat. He doesn’t know why it strikes him as funny that Yuuri bothered to spell that out instead of using an abbreviation like a normal person (like he knows Yuuri does most of the time, anyway. Yuuri is one of the most casually tech literate people he knows, even if he pretends not to be.)

The cab pulls over in front of the veterinary clinic and Yuri counts out his money as fast as possible. He carries Potya inside as carefully as he can, holding the carrier gently against his chest, swaddled in a blanket to keep out the cold night air.

Inside the lights are harsh and fluorescent and everything smells like disinfectant, but the waiting room is empty and the woman at the desk hurries him into an exam room as he trips over himself trying to explain the situation.

There’s a veterinarian, and a technician, and Yuri tries to help them get Potya out of the carrier but his hands are shaking so badly that he’s probably more a hindrance than anything. They get her on some blankets, which he thinks is probably good because the metal of the exam table looks cold, but she just looks so small, and limp, and not at all like the feisty, opinionated, ball of personality Yuri’s used to coming home to that he can feel the tightness winding its way back around his chest, hear his breaths coming in shorter and shorter gasps even as he tries to recount everything he knows about Potya’s medical history and the events of the evening prior.

The receptionist lays a hand on his shoulder and Yuri flinches back. It was probably meant to be comforting, but he feels like if anyone touches him right now he will fracture into a hundred jagged shards that could never be put back together. She gives him a sad smile, like she knows anything, like she sees this every day, and gestures to move him out back into the waiting room.

He hesitates, eyes lingering on Potya’s limp form, so fragile and seemingly lifeless but for the tiniest rise and fall of her side, surrounded by the expanse of cold grey metal. But then the bodies of the vet staff block his view, quick and efficient in their work, and Yuri lets himself be led out to the months-old magazines and hard plastic chairs on the other side of the door.

Instead of an outdated copy of Time, the receptionist hands him a clipboard and gently prods him over to one of the chairs. Yuri tries to fill out the forms, but his hands are still trembling uncontrollably, and there’s a blurriness to his eyes that won’t go away no matter how much he blinks. 

Yuri wonders if this is what Yuuri’s anxiety feels like. Even against the swelling waves of dread, he can’t help the glow of a spark of admiration—he’s barely managing to fill out a form in a quiet waiting room, he can’t imagine trying to skate like this. 

The receptionist sets a paper cup full of water down at his elbow and offers him what she probably means to be a reassuring smile. Yuri kind of wants to knock it on the floor. He kind of wants to scream, too. He doesn’t, not either of them, but he wants to. He doesn’t need some stranger pitying him. 

With trembling hands, the cup is carefully moved out of range and the smile is returned with a scowl. Yakov and Lilia would despair of his deportment—slouched, knees up in his seat, glaring at those trying to help him—but they aren’t here so it doesn’t matter.

He tries to refocus on the paperwork in front of him, but his hands are still too shaky, the words to blurry. The pen in his hands is running out of ink and he scratches in the margins, partially trying to coax it back to life but mostly just fidgeting.

Slowly, the boxes get filled, his handwriting poor but mostly legible, as he desperately wracks his brain for the details of six-odd years of his cat’s medical history. It’s silent from the other side of the closed door to the exam room, and Yuri can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad one. His churning gut tells him it’s bad. Potya has never been quiet for the vet in her entire life.

He’s about to ask if he can go back and see her (more like demand, if the anger creeping up the back of his throat has anything to do with it) when the door to the clinic bursts open with a gust of cold wind and the shrill buzz of an electronic chime. The rumpled figure of Yuuri—who looks like he rushed out the door after getting dressed in the dark and had possibly tripped and fallen a few times on his way to the car—skids to a halt on the battered linoleum before spotting Yuri.

“Yura,” he said as he slid into the chair next to Yuri, waving off the alarmed receptionist with a reassuring smile, “how is Potya? How can I help?

Yuri realizes he’s staring as Yuuri tilts his head quizzically, eyes wide behind slightly crooked glasses. He can feel his chin start to quiver and he bites down on his lower lip.

It’s all just too much. Potya’s sick and maybe dying, it’s the middle of the night, and Yuuri came. Even though it's late and he needs to be at practice early in the morning, even though he needs to be thinking about the world championships coming up, even though Yuri didn’t even ask. He still showed up at some tiny-ass emergency vet clinic in the middle of the night so Yuri wouldn’t have to deal with his cat maybe-dying by himself.

His vision blurs over completely and tears spill down his cheeks. Yuri bites his lip harder to prevent the sob filling his mouth from escaping. He almost brains Yuuri with the clipboard as he throws his arms around him, clutching tightly and burying his face in the other man’s shoulder.

Yuuri’s arms settle around his shoulders and a hand sweeps back and forth with a reassuring firmness. It reminds Yuri of when he was a child, of the times when his grandfather would soothe him back to sleep after a nightmare. The comforting murmur of words in his ear is familiar, too, even if the mix of English and Japanese is nothing like his grandfather’s Russian lullabies.

Eventually, Yuri cries himself out, his muffled sobs reduced to a staccato rhythm of sharp hiccoughs, and he takes a shaky breath as he pulls his face out of Yuuri’s shoulder. He notes that he’s cried through Yuuri’s coat and hopes that the ensuing embarrassed flush is at least hidden in the blotchy red mess already adorning his features. “Sorry,” he mutters as he pulls back. He can’t look Yuuri in the eye.

“It’s all right, Yura.” Yuuri’s hand gives a reassuring squeeze.

“No, it’s not.” Yuuri seems to get that Yuri isn’t really talking about his sudden emotional outburst, or not just about that, and doesn’t object. He hands Yuri the cup of water that somehow managed to avoid the recent dramatics and watches as he takes a sip, trying to quiet the hiccoughs.

“How is Potya?” Yuuri’s voice is quiet and low, and his hand is still holding Yuri’s, running his thumb gently over the back of his hand.

“I don’t know,” Yuri says as he takes small sips of the water. It’s room temperature and it tastes like plastic, like it was kept in a bottle for too long. He glances up in the direction of the receptionist. She has discreetly looked away from the pair of them, shuffling the papers on her desk between piles.

She looks up as they approach, Yuri having frantically scrubbed his face with a handkerchief Yuuri produced out of his coat pocket (he now recognizes the coat as Viktor’s and feels a little less bad about getting snot all over it.) He probably still doesn’t look respectable, but at least he feels a little less gross.

There’s still a knot of anxiety in his chest as the receptionist leads him and Yuuri back into the exam room. There’s nothing, Yuri thinks, that could alleviate that in its entirety until he knows for certain that Potya is going to be alright and he has her home safe and sound. But Yuuri is a comforting presence, quietly supportive at his back, and Yuri feels just a tiny bit better as he squares his shoulders and walks through the door.

Potya’s indignant meow—a demand heard loud and clear even over the bustle of the veterinary personnel—does an awful lot to help with the rest.

* * *

The door closes with a soft click and Yuri drops his bag with a bit less care than he probably should in the vestibule. It’s quiet, the noise from the road muffled by the thick walls and the distance the fourth floor offers from the street. He grins as he slips off his shoes and coat, discarded with equal disregard next to his bag, and, with an unnecessarily furtive look around, takes off running across the hardwood in his socks before diving on the plush leather sofa.

Yuri cackles as he stuffs one of the leopard print throw pillows behind his head, stretching out luxuriously on the brand-new furnishings. He has his own space! A whole apartment, all his own. No roommates, no Lilia, just him and Potya and all the freedom to do what they want with it.

It’s fantastic. It’s already been a week since he finished moving in, but the thrill hasn’t worn off yet. The place still needs decorating, but Mila promised to help him with anything that required, like, assembling or power tools and shit, and Otabek had pointed him towards some really cool wall hangings that would look super grown up and could totally replace his old posters. He is going to have the best apartment ever.

Potya wanders out of the bedroom and hops up on Yuri’s stomach. He gives her head a scratch and smiles. They’re proper adults now. He even gets to throw a housewarming party, and be just as obnoxious as Viktor and Yuuri were when they moved into their new place (“This way it’s our apartment, Yurio! We both had a say in what we wanted. And there’s more room for guests, and for parties!)

Yuri’s eyes widen in alarm, even as Potya bats impatiently at his face and meows, reminding him it’s dinner time. _Guests_. How could he have forgotten? He gets up, heading to the kitchen to answer Potya’s indignant demands, but his mind is elsewhere, in a daze. His grandpa is coming this weekend. _He has to cook dinner._

After obligingly filling Potya’s dish with her supper and re-filling her water bowl with fresh water, he mechanically pulls out a baking tray for his own meal. As he plops a chicken breast on the center of the tray and switches on the oven, Yuri confronts the issue that he has spent the last three weeks avoiding thinking about.

Yuri is not a good cook.

He isn’t a terrible cook, thank you Viktor. He can feed himself just fine. It’s a requirement, as a professional athlete, you need to know how to cook because a proper diet is important and you certainly can’t win the Grand Prix Final (or anything else for that matter) eating nothing but take-out and freezer meals from the grocery store. So, Yuri can cook. Just not well.

The basics of an athlete’s diet, bland but (usually) edible, are the extent of his repertoire. And they’re certainly not what he wants to be serving his grandpa, the best cook he knows. (Okay, the food at Yuuri’s parent’s onsen could probably give him a run for his money if Yuri was being honest—not that he ever would be—but his grandpa still wins by virtue of a) cooking all of Yuri’s favorite Russian foods which are, of course, the best, and b) the fact that he is Yuri’s grandpa, and no one will ever be a better cook—or a better person—than him.)

So, when Yuri realized that having his grandpa visit his new apartment meant that he would have to cook, he spent the intervening time focusing on the practicalities of moving and setting up his new place and not on the unpleasant facts of not knowing how to cook. Which, of course, leads directly to this moment now, with Yuri silently freaking out over not knowing how to cook while staring at a raw chicken breast while his oven preheats. 

“Damn it.” The words are loud in the quiet apartment. At the unfeeling beep of the oven, Yuri tosses in his dinner before stomping back over to the couch to stare sulkily at his phone and try and swallow his pride (and work up the nerve) enough to make the call that he knows he needs to make. 

It probably takes longer than it should, and the chicken is cooked and eaten by the time Yuri finally presses call, but at least he’s full and has Potya settled on his lap as he waits nervously listening to the ringtone. 

“Hello? Yura?” Yuri’s voice is surprised and Yuri flinches because he’s already made it weird, he never calls, always prefers to text or Skype or talk in person and now Yuuri knows something is up.

“My grandpa’s coming to visit this weekend and I need you to help me cook him dinner.” The words come out in a rush and Yuri just hopes that Yuuri can understand them because there’s no way he can deal with asking again. His stomach is in knots and his free hand is gripping Potya’s fur too hard. He quickly let’s go and she jumps away. Asking for help sucks so much.

There’s quiet on the other end of the line. Yuri hopes it’s just because Yuuri is trying to work out what he said and not that he’s trying to figure out how to very politely tell him to piss off. He figure’s the latter is unlikely—Yuuri is usually super nice about these sorts of things and probably wouldn’t tell him to piss off even if he deserved it, which Yuri doesn’t think he does at least in this particular situation—but the wait is still super stressful. 

“Okay, when do you need to do it by?”

Yuri realizes he’s been holding his breath when it leaves his lungs in a large whoosh. “Well, grandpa is getting here on Saturday, so maybe Friday night we could put some things together that I could finish or heat up the next day?” he suggests. 

Yuuri makes an affirmative hum. “That should work. Do you know what you want to make?” 

“Uh, um.” He’d been so busy panicking that he hadn’t gotten that far.

There’s a soft laugh from the phone. “Think about it and let me know.”

Yuri lets the quiet stretch for a moment, the anxiety settling back and a calm familiarity rising up to take its place. “Thanks, Katsudon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Yura.”

He does think about it, spends the rest of the evening drawing up a list of foods he wants to make. It’s trickier than he anticipated—he wants to make his favorites, to show his grandpa that he can do the familiar foods they both love. But his grandpa makes them the best of anyone, and Yuri knows that no matter how hard he tries his will always be an inferior imitation. He’d like to make some of his favorites from Yuuri’s family, too, but those recipes are also fraught. He doesn’t want to make his grandpa feel like he’s abandoning his dishes entirely for something new.

In the end, he has a list of all his favorite foods and resolves to talk it over with Yuuri in the morning. At the very least he could probably tell Yuri which recipes he would have the least likelihood of having a major kitchen failure working with.

The next day Yuuri is able to provide feedback, which Yuri is thankful for. Viktor, curled up next to his husband on the cafeteria bench, also provides a running commentary, about which Yuri is less enthusiastic.

“You can’t serve all of this at one time, Yurio, it doesn’t go together and it would be way too much food,” Viktor says, as though he had any sense of taste and moderation and isn’t thoroughly enjoying his retirement from competition by eating a massive sandwich and dessert right in front of him and Yuuri like the asshole he is. 

“Shut up, old man. I didn’t ask for your opinion.” He turns his attention back to Yuuri, who is hiding a grin behind his hand like he thinks Yuri won’t notice. “So, what do you think?”

“Well, you definitely don’t want to do everything,” he says. Yuri kicks Viktor’s shin under the table at the smug ‘ha’ that comes from around a bite of sandwich. “It would be too time-consuming for starters, and you probably want to minimize the opportunity for things to do wrong. If you keep things simple there’s less of a chance of disaster,” Yuuri continues, ignoring the bickering beside him.

Yuri scowls. Simple, uncomplicated, and low risk weren’t exactly his MO. They were not exactly that of the other two, either, and all three of them knew it. But, in this case, Yuri might have to admit that Yuuri was right. In skating, he knows how to take risks, when and where to push the limits for an optimal result. In the kitchen not so much.

As much as it grates on him to do so, playing it safe is definitely the best option in this scenario.

“I definitely want to make the piroshky,” he says. “I know I’ll never make one’s as good as my grandpa, but I want to show him I can make them myself.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says, making a note on the list of dishes, “that's a good place to start.” 

“A salad or some steamed vegetables would be an easy side dish,” Viktor adds, “and it would be at least one thing on your meal plan.”

“Shut up,” Yuri says, taking another swing at Viktor’s ankles, “but yeah, I know how to do that, so it would be good.”

“Then you just need a main dish.” Yuuri makes a few notes on the list. “One of these shouldn’t be too hard, and should work well to make ahead.”

Yuri scans the suggestions. “How about the Japanese curry? I really like it and I don’t think grandpa has had it before. Can you ask your mom for the recipe?”

Yuuri smiles. “Sure thing Yura. Do you want to go shopping after practice tomorrow? Then we can have everything ready to go to prepare ahead on Friday, and then you can do the rest with your grandpa on Saturday. 

“Okay.”

“Yay! A family outing.” Viktor grins cheekily before shoving a spoonful of dessert in his mouth, the jerk.

“Ugh. You are not invited, old man.”

“I am the only one with a car.”

“Shut up”

Yuuri sighs and goes back to his lunch. Yuri kicks Viktor in the shins again.

Shopping with Viktor and Yuuri turns out, much to Yuri’s surprise, not too be a disaster. Sure, Viktor spends half the time wandering off looking for specialty products he wants to try and sneaking junk food into the cart (Yuri isn’t sure how Yuuri manages to live with him, both as a competitive athlete and as a reasonably sane person with someone who is neither of those things), and Yuuri has the technical disadvantage of still being terrible at reading Cyrillic and takes forever trying to find the right version or proper brand of things. But other than that, it goes okay. 

Yuuri has a thorough list. Viktor makes a willing runner, tracking down the Japanese specialty ingredients they need for the curry. Yuri mans the cart and remembers all the brands his grandpa likes the best.

When they finally get back to Yuri’s apartment, it takes them three trips to get all the groceries upstairs. He suspects they may have overdone it a bit. But his grandpa is coming and he has two friends (?) to help him and he is going to show his grandpa the best ‘look, see, I’m a responsible competent adult, thank you for all the work you did in making that happen’ dinner ever. 

And, it’s nice, cooking with Yuuri. Viktor comes over, too, but he stays out of the way (Yuri isn’t sure if it’s because Viktor doesn’t know how to cook either or because of some latent sense of tact, but he’s glad of it just the same) and Yuri and Yuuri are left to negotiate the small kitchen space and their recipes by themselves. 

The kitchen is loud and messy—because no one has ever accused Yuri of being neat, especially in his own space—but there’s a comfortable rhythm to their work. The preparation of ingredients—Yuri carefully chopping vegetables with the knives Yuuri brought over because he knew there wouldn’t be anything suitable at Yuri’s—the careful mixing of dough, the measuring of spices. All are accompanied by a comforting, familiar warmth emanating from the cheerful banter and gentle instructions. 

It seems to seep into the wood and tile of the kitchen fixtures and make them seem a little less new, a little more worn. But in a good way, where they glow with the happy sounds of a home filled with loved ones.

When Yuri’s grandpa arrives, and—after a day of showing off the city and his new apartment—Yuri shows off the fruits of his labor, the response is all he could hope for. The meal is delicious and his grandpa’s smile when he tells him he cooked it himself is so proud it makes Yuri’s heart ache in his chest. And if Yuri grudgingly admits he had some help from Yuuri and Viktor it only seems to make his grandpa smile wider.

* * *

Yuri stares at the cardboard boxes, packed full and taped shut, with their contents neatly written on the side, sitting in the entryway of Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment. They don’t look as monumental as they seem, but, as experience has taught him, things rarely do.

There’s a commotion behind him and he steps out of the way as the door swings open. Viktor and Yuuri troop into the apartment, a metal furniture dolly rattling along behind them.

“Yurio!” Viktor says as he starts to load the last of the boxes on to the cart. “You’re here!”

“Yeah,” Yuri says. He’s mumbling, he knows, his hands shoved into his pockets in a way that hunches his shoulders something awful. If Lilia could see him now, she would scowl disapprovingly and lecture about prima ballerinas and facing adversity with poise. He doesn’t feel very poised right now. Or like the fiery prima he tried to embody at fifteen. Mostly he feels sad and small.

As Yuuri backs out the door with the loaded dolly Viktor stays put, looking at Yuri. Softly, more hesitant than Yuri is used to seeing from the physically affectionate man, he reaches out and places a hand on Yuri’s shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, tone turned serious. 

Yuri shrugs, gently enough not to knock off Viktor’s hand. “I’m fine,” he says, and it’s mostly true. It’s one of the stages of grief, he thinks, but whether it’s depression or acceptance he isn’t sure. All he knows is that there is nothing he can do about it and that he is very tired.

“Hey, Yura,” Viktor says, tapping Yuri’s chin to get him to look up, “we’re still here for you. Whenever you need us. We’ll only be a phone call away. Okay?” 

Yuri nods. “Yeah, okay.” He knows. It just sucks. A phone call away in Japan is a lot farther than just across town and seeing them almost every day at the rink.

“We’re here for you,” Viktor says again, his eyes serious, “I promise.”

* * *

It certainly hasn’t been one of Yuri’s better days. He overslept. He spilled his breakfast on the floor (even if Mama Hiroko was very nice about it.) He burned his tongue on his coffee. He got a text from Otabek dis-inviting him from his annual trip to Kazakhstan next month.

He flubs a combination spin _again_ and slides across the ice on his ass. The triplets, now in elementary school but still more likely than not to spend their free time hanging out around their parent’s rink, are laughing from the bleachers.

“If that spin is too hard for you Yurio I can come up with something easier.” Viktor’s taunt floats across the ice with that sickeningly sweet condescension that always sets Yuri’s teeth on edge and does nothing to improve his general frame of mind.

“Shut up, old man, I can do it just fine,” he snarls back as he pushes himself up, brushing the snow off his pants. “I can do this shit in my sleep.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Yuri launches into the spin again, and if it isn’t the most graceful combination spin he’s ever done he does at least get through all the positions and revolutions. Transitioning into the following segment of choreography he restrains himself from sending any obscene gestures in the direction of Viktor’s sarcastic clapping, but only because he knows Yuuko would chew him out for doing it in front of the triplets and his day already sucks enough.

Sometimes Yuri really wonders why he continues to associate with Viktor, now that Viktor and Yuuri train in Hasetsu full time and he doesn’t strictly have to see him at all outside of any competitions Yuri shares with Yuuri. Then he remembers that Viktor is actually a really good choreographer (like, famous for it), and that Viktor is married to Yuuri, who Yuri actually kind of does want to see outside of a few times a year at competitions, and that Viktor is kind of like his asshole older brother (emphasis on the asshole) and that he genuinely tries to be, like, emotionally invested in Yuri’s life and career and shit.

And since that’s more than Yuri can say for a lot of the people in his life (and since he knows, deep down, that Viktor is a good and caring person even if he is a bit of a jerk) that apparently means that he’ll keep spending time with the asshole.

That doesn’t mean he has to be happy about the joking, though.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to change the program, Yurio?” Viktor prods as Yuri takes a drink from his water bottle. “I’m sure I can simplify it if you need me to.”

“Fuck off, old man.” Yuri meets his smirk with a glare. As if Viktor would ever compromise his artistic vision or whatever just because Yuri couldn’t perform it. Which he can. He and Viktor come from the same Lilia Baranovskaya and Yakov Feltsman trained lineage. Their standards of excellence and perfection are the highest in the world. 

That’s why they win. 

“Vitya.”

The word is soft-spoken but firm and paired with a cautioning hand on Viktor’s elbow. Yuuri’s face is drawn into a disapproving frown which he turns on Viktor and Yuri equally, but he doesn’t say anything else as he slips off his skate guards and steps onto the ice.

The expression on his face is clearly curious, concern etched across his features even if he doesn’t say anything, and Yuri grits out a muttered “I’m fine,” as they skate away from the boards. Yuuri obviously doesn’t believe him, but thankfully doesn’t press. 

That evening, after a delicious meal back at Yu-topia and hours of fruitless staring at his phone hoping for some further contact or explanation from Otabek, Yuri finds himself sitting on the porch overlooking the inn’s courtyard, lazily fanning himself in the muggy evening heat. It’s stupid. He should just call Otabek if he wants to know why Otabek doesn’t want him to come visit. That’s what adults do when their friends cancel, right?

But the collection of old, familiar worries rises up whenever he goes to grab his phone: what if Otabek hates him? What if this brush off is his way of telling Yuri that he doesn’t want to be friends anymore? What if Otabek has discovered Yuri’s horribly embarrassing crush and he’s creeped out and this is all part of his way of trying to tell Yuri to keep his distance?

Yuri groans and just barely restrains himself from kicking the nearest inanimate object in frustration. It’s only because the nearest options are either a) a rock (which would break his foot) or b) some sort of flowering shrub (which Mari would kick his ass for damaging and then probably make him replace) that he doesn’t, but a win’s a win and he’ll take it. He’s still agitated and antsy and can’t do anything about it, though, which is hella stupid frustrating. He groans again and drops his head into his hands.

“Yura?” The slide of the door opening behind him registers just a moment too late for Yuri to pull himself into a less emotionally revealing posture, so he doesn’t bother moving.

“What do you want, Katsudon?” he mumbles into his hands instead.

He can hear as Yuuri shuts the door and moves to sit down beside him. “Is everything . . .” The silence hangs for a moment. “Okay?”

“Just peachy, why do you ask?”

“You know I’m always here to talk if you need to. Or just if you want to.” Yuuri’s voice is calm and sympathetic, and it kind of makes Yuri want to hit something even more except he knows Yuuri really means it and he isn’t being as patronizing as Yuri wants to think he is and he would probably be genuinely hurt if Yuri lashed out the way he wants to and even though Yuri kind of wants to hurt _something_ right now he doesn’t want to hurt _Yuuri_. 

“What do you do if someone you really like suddenly messages you to cancel the time you were planning on spending together without an explanation?” The words flow out in a rush, almost without Yuri’s permission.

There’s a pause, and then, “well, usually you message them back and ask. You’re not entitled to an answer, of course, but it can’t hurt to at least try the direct route.”

Yuri groans and flops back with his arm over his eyes in a move he would never admit he stole from Georgi. “Ugh, that’s stupid and bad advice, don’t you have anything about how to know what they mean without talking to them?”

“You can’t expect people to always know what you’re thinking, Yura. Sometimes you have to use your words and ask.”

“And that doesn’t scare you?”

“Yura, I have anxiety. Literally everything scares me.” Likely as intended, that prompts a brief flicker of a smile across Yuri’s face. Yuuri sighs. “I can’t tell you everything is going to work out. No one can, that would be impossible. But if you want to have any chance of finding out what is going on, the only thing you can do is talk to Otabek.”

Silence falls between them and Yuri sits up and stares out into the darkened courtyard of the inn, cicadas screaming out of the blackness all around them seeming to grow louder in the absence of conversation. Yuuri, he knows, is right. 

For all his occasional insecurity and/or dramatics the other man is actually one of the more competent individuals amongst his friend group. (A statement that does not paint a particularly flattering picture of his social circle, for sure.) Not to mention that he is one half of one of the most stable and loving long-term relationships in Yuri’s proximity. (Again, not a complementary observation of those around him, but the point stands.)

“How did you know I was talking about Otabek?” The words are quiet but Yuri says them clearly. He isn’t going to deny it.

Yuuri chuffs a laugh. “There’s only one person you’re planning on visiting this summer. Or ever. And there aren’t that many people who can get you upset in a sad, mad, and anxious way, instead of the just plain pissed way. I’m sorry, Yura, but you are a bit easy to read.”

“I am not, you asshole.” It probably would have been a more inspiring defense if Yuri could have managed more than a flat monotone for his riposte, but it had been a long day and Yuuri knows him too well. It was all true, anyway. That was part of why Yuri is so scared of losing Otabek’s friendship—he doesn’t exactly have scores of backup friends waiting in line if this is something he screws up. 

Yuri lets out a groan as he slumps forward and drops his head into his hands once more. “Ugh,” he says, “you’re right. Fine. I’ll talk to Otabek. I can be an adult. Best case scenario I get a boyfriend, worst case I destroy one of my closest friendships. What could possibly go wrong?”

“I mean, that seems unlikely? You and Otabek are good friends, I doubt you would just start hating one another over something you said as long as you are honest about your feelings and respectful of one another.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” Yuuri just raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Yeah, I know you’re probably right, but, one, I don’t exactly have a track record of being tactful and shit, two, I don’t know what I’ve already done to piss him off, so I don’t know what my odds are of fixing it are yet, and, three, you’re a total hypocrite, you realize this, right? I don’t remember very much honesty about your feelings when you were getting together with Viktor.”

“Do as I say, not as I do?” Yuuri laughs softly, a little wry smile twisting at the corner of his mouth. “Really though. You were there, you saw it. When Viktor and I didn’t communicate was when things went badly. It’s important to talk about what you want and what your expectations are in a relationship. And we’ve gotten a lot better, since then.”

Yuuri takes a breath and seems to think for a moment. “Seriously, though. Whether it’s as a friend or as a—boyfriend?” The eyebrow is once again raised asking questions Yuri refuses to answer. Yes, he brought it up, which was stupid of him, but he does not want to talk about that particular slip of the tongue right now. Or ever. 

“Whatever sort of relationship you have, if one of you does something that hurts the other it’s important to talk about it. And it seems like Otabek has done something that hurt you. You’re perfectly within your rights to ask for an explanation and to tell him what he did hurt you.”

“But I don’t even know what I did to piss him off in the first place. Ugh, we’re just talking in circles.”

“Why do you assume you did something to make him angry at all?”

“Uh, because he told me not to come to see him?” Yuri rolls his eyes again like the teenager he no longer is. “I go visit every year, we’ve been planning for months, clearly I did something to change his mind.”

Yuuri shoots an unimpressed look over at him. “Or, something happened on his end that means he can’t have a houseguest right now?” he suggests. “You said it yourself, this is a regular thing for you two that you’ve both been looking forward to. It makes more sense that there was an external factor that you don’t know about than Otabek randomly deciding to hate you.”

Yuri hates when Yuuri talks sense to him. He is still one of the few people he can take it from. Ironically, one of the others is Otabek.

“Call him,” Yuuri says, giving Yuri a gentle pat on the shoulder as he stands up, “or just send him a text. Just, talk to one another and stop angst-ing, okay?”

“Shut up, Katsudon.” The parting words are thrown at the door closing behind Yuuri’s back but are met with quiet laughter.

Left alone in the soft glow of the porch light, with nothing but the buzz of the cicadas and the hum of the dining room patrons finishing up their evening meals, Yuri reaches into his pocket and pulled out his phone. After a long moment of staring at the home screen, he pulls up Otabek’s contact and hits call.

* * *

It isn’t as if Yuri expected to be greeted with a banner and flowers when he stepped off the train at Hasetsu station, but the total lack of a welcoming committee (and between Viktor, Yuuri, Yuuko, and the triplets it was always a committee) is a bit of a surprise. And by surprise, he means ‘actually kind of annoying, not that he would admit it’ because after the combined flight and train ride he has been awake for way too many hours and really wants a nap. What he does not want is to have to try and track down his recalcitrant hosts, wherever they might have gotten themselves distracted and forgetful of their houseguests. 

He pulls out his phone and sends a quick, scowling ‘arrived in Hasetsu but Katsudon and the old man forgot to pick me up’ Snapchat to Otabek. After he grabs a can of coffee from a vending machine (an absolutely brilliant idea that should definitely be exported to other countries if you asked Yuri) and makes his way out of the station, he gets a reply.

It’s a single thumbs up emoji.

Yuri snorts. Sometimes his boyfriend amazes him with how thoughtful and eloquent he can be. Other times he’s just as taciturn as everyone else seems to think.

The walk from the train station to the Katsuki-Nikiforov apartment isn’t long. Certainly, it doesn’t take as long as Yuri’s first trip to Hasetsu, when he spent hours wandering around lost and thought the best way to find Viktor was to repeatedly shout his name and frighten unsuspecting townspeople with diatribes in angry, incomprehensible Russian. 

This time—many years later and after a lot of time working on his impulsiveness, poor planning skills, and anger management—he has an address for his destination and an international phone plan. Not to mention, this time he knows a lot of people in town, not just Viktor. If something comes up, he can manage.

It’s a nice day in Hasetsu, the stifling heat and humidity not yet an oppressive blanket smothering the town and a cool sea breeze blows in crisply off the water. Yuri zips up his hoodie and smiles as the wind ruffles his hair. The combination of caffeine and fresh air was waking him up and he can feel a bit of extra pep in his step as he strides swiftly along the bridge, suitcase bumping along behind him. 

He forgets, sometimes, how much he likes Hasetsu. There isn’t any particular reason he should, after all. But there are people here he likes, and who seemed to like him in return. And the place itself is quiet. Like a smaller, Japanese version of St. Petersburg. He wonders sometimes if Viktor thinks that, too.

Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment is located on a quiet side street, with lots of window boxes filled with flowers and more than the occasional cat strolling casually down the alleyways. It’s nice, Yuri thinks. Very domestic. Just the kind of place a stupid in love couple would want when they’re thinking of starting a family.

He can hear noises inside the apartment through the door, but thankfully it isn’t the sex kind of noises. That’s not an experience he ever wants to repeat. The buzzer is loud and disrupts whatever is going on inside, and when the door opens Yuuri’s face is surprised for a moment, then embarrassed. 

“Oh, Yura! You’re here,” he says, looking sheepish.

Yuri just shakes his head. He isn’t actually mad, for all he will make them buy him dinner later to make up for the slight. “Well, let me in,” he says, “I want to know what’s so important you forgot I was coming today.”

“Who is it, solnyshko?” Viktor calls from inside the apartment as Yuri slides out of his shoes.

“It’s Yura,” Yuuri calls back, pulling Yuri’s suitcase out of the entryway.

“What?” Viktor pokes his head out into the living room. His hair is stuck out at all angles and he has a smear of brown dust across his cheek. “Is it that late already?”

“Obviously,” Yuri says with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh.” Viktor looks puzzled and Yuri wants to laugh at him. He hardly ever gets to see the ultra-confident Viktor Nikiforov look so wrong-footed and it’s a pretty amusing site. “I’m sorry, Yura. I guess we just let time get away from us.”

Yuri snorts as he pushes back behind him into the guest room of the apartment. “Whatever you say, old man.” They’d probably gotten caught up in one of their disgusting displays of romantic affection and lost track of time. They certainly looked disheveled enough for it.

That thought is quickly derailed the moment he lays eyes on the contents of the guest bedroom. It is in complete disarray; the small but neat space no longer host to the guest bed Yuri has used during several of his previous trips to Hasetsu but instead the disassembled form of a baby crib. 

“What the hell,” he says, staring at the scattered wood and metal pieces, “are you two having a baby?”

His exclamation is met with two smiling faces that span the spectrum from quietly pleased and a bit overwhelmed to exuberant, puppyish excitement, which answer his question pretty well. There’s a lot he could say in response, but years of practice—with the media, with a therapist, with Viktor and Yuuri themselves—help him go with what is the correct response. “Congratulations.” 

Yuri has . . . a lot of feelings about Yuuri and Viktor having kids. There’s something hard and angry in his chest at the thought, but he bites it down. The smiles facing him are too happy to go messing things up now. Too happy, even, for proper anger. And, there’s a part of him that perks up in interest, almost delight, at the thought. He’ll deal with it later.

Now, he grabs Yuuri into a rough hug and says again, “congratulations,” as he blindly grabs to add Viktor to the awkward group. He knows this is something the two of them have been talking about for a long time.

They hug back, with an “aww, Yurio,” and a “thanks, Yura,” and then it’s too much for Yuri and he pulls away, with what he will deny are tears in his eyes. He clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, headed back out into the living room, “how long have you been working on that?” He pulls out his phone without even waiting for an answer.  
“The crib?” Yuuri asks, “about four hours. The adoption much longer.”

Yuri nods. That’s about what he thought. When the call connects, he bids Mama Hiroko a warm hello in his best (if a little rusty) Japanese and—quickly, before Viktor or Yuuri can object—tells her that he needs a room at the inn and that her idiot son and son-in-law need some help assembling flat pack furniture.

He takes a deep breath, but Yuri finds he’s smiling as he hangs up, her laughter still ringing in his ear, to the scowls and protestations of the two men in front of him. “Don’t even try to argue,” he says. “Everything I said was true.”

“You’re still welcome to stay here,” Viktor says, his face with an unaccustomed seriousness.

Yuri shoots him a wry grin. “I know.” He jams his feet back into his shoes and grabs his bag. “I’ll see you two at dinner, right?” 

They nod, and he heads out. It’s still a lovely day, and the walk to the onsen is a short one. Yuri thinks he would be whistling if he were the sort of person who whistled. This is good, he decides. The feeling in his chest isn’t anger, it’s happiness.


End file.
